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As a serial killer with morals, I don’t kill the innocent…though the bitch in front of me is certainly testing my resolve.
Fuck this fucking city.
The only reason I moved here was to catch a killer.
Yet, here I am. In Seattle traffic. Behind a bitch who can’t use turn signals.
I slam my hand on the horn slightly longer than is necessary, watching as she flicks her stupid hair in the mirror. My new sunglasses do fuck all to block the sun beaming into my car. While I stew in traffic, growing more enraged at the fact that I woke up two hours early in an attempt to avoid this exact situation, I find the thing that offers me a little comfort—the file containing the reason why this trip to hell is worth it.
For two years, I’ve waited for a chance to have this manuscript. Two months ago, when I saw the auction list, I couldn’t believe my eyes. There it was. The image didn’t do it justice with the blue and black written notes in the margins adorning the edges, framing the lyrical words.
A veil of rage clouds my vision as I begin planning the demise of the lady in the Kia Soul. People would see me, yes. But I could always just burn the car.
Turning my head slowly, I see a ditch across the bypass. That could work. Just a nudge. That’s all she needs. My head lulls from side to side in contemplation, until a call blares through the car speakers, interrupting my entertaining intrusive thoughts.
Zarya’s photo lights up the screen on the dashboard. My older sister. Always interrupting my excellence. I hit the answer button, and her voice bellows through the speakers.
“We may have to change names, cities, and have Litza start a new business for me.”
I chuckle at her theatrics. She’s so woefully dramatic, but then again, so am I.
“What did you do this time? It can’t be that bad,” I joke, but in all honesty, it could be.
Litza and I are easier to predict than Zarya. Not that we would change it. It would make life so fucking boring.
“Oh yeah, no. I fucked up bad. One of my clients came in for tea to help get him up…you know what I mean…” Zarya’s voice carries a shrieking pitch.
Oh-h-h-h, this is good. She has indeed fucked up. Few things entertain me more than these gentle family bonding moments.
“Right…” I don’t even really have to guess what happened. My sister is many things but precise and organized—she is not.
“Don’t be so snarky. Just listen. I was gathering everything to put in the pestle…you know how yohimbe has some amazing qualities—stiffened dick being one of them, right?”
Of course, she eyeballed the measurements of a potentially lethal substance. Why wouldn’t she? Under that scrutinizing gaze of hers, precision is apparently optional. She wouldn’t recognize a measuring spoon if it bit her in the ass.
Litza and I have had more than one close call after drinking tea from Zarya’s shop. She makes a particularly good sleepy-time tea, her label promises dreams, and by god it delivers.
“Hmm…yes. What’s the problem?”
I already know the answer. Death is the problem. Not that she’ll tell me explicitly. Though, we both grew up with the same botany tutor.
“Well, I guess I doubled the recipe or something. The jar is half empty.” Her voice breaks, clear warning that she’s dangerously close to manic territory.
“Call your client and ask for it back. Tell him you forgot the main ingredient or that you have a new fresh supply which would work better.”
“Bitch. You don’t think I tried that? The man basically told me that he’s in the woods with a specialty club.”
“A specialty club?” My brows pinch together in confusion.
“A sex club…” She shrieks.
“Oh dear,” I deadpan, fighting back a chuckle.
“This man is traipsing through the woods, hoping for an erection, with no idea how close he is to ending up in a pine box. When I spoke with him, he’d already had two cups, Patience. TWO!”
I nod. Aside from her weirdly specific tree-themed rant, it’s pretty on point for her. I’m surprised she hasn’t killed anyone…yet.
